Keeping on
by reading
Summary: Coda to Heart


_Keeping On_

_Post-Heart, pre-Hollywood Babylon_

_xxxx_

Sam had stopped in the center of the room.

"Go take a shower," Dean said dully, dropping bags on the floor.

Sam nodded and stumbled to the bathroom, pulling off his clothes as he went, apparently suddenly desperate to be shed of them.

It had taken hours to deal with Madison's body, to clean the apartment, to do what they could not to leave evidence that they'd been there, that Sam…

It had been a miracle that the gunshot hadn't brought the police, but it hadn't and Dean had forced himself and Sam to take the time to wipe the place down. With the feds on their trail they didn't need to leave fingerprints and DNA behind in the apartment of a girl who was about to go "missing."

Sam hadn't said a word. He'd done everything Dean had told him to do without question, moving like an automaton, face blank, eyes shattered. Dean had half expected his brother to shut down completely, but Sam had done what needed to be done, anticipating problems himself, dealing with them silently and efficiently.

After they'd burned the body, Dean had bundled Sam into the car and driven until he couldn't see straight anymore. Then he'd found a hotel and checked them in.

Dean wasn't in much better shape than his brother. The smell of the fire clung to his clothes and his hair, and it was all Dean could do not to strip down to his skin and open the door of the motel room to the night air, hoping that the stiff evening breeze would take the odor with it.

Instead of indulging in that bit of exhibitionism, Dean dropped onto one of the beds, falling back and draping an arm over his face. Sighing, he rubbed wearily at his eyes, grimacing at the sting and smell of gasoline on his hands.

Dean forced his mind to remain blank, refusing to let any of the images that were skimming along the edges of his consciousness take shape. Because if he did…. If he let the thought of Sam's devastation coalesce in his mind, there'd be no turning away from the possibility that that might be the path he himself was on. No denying the possibility that some day he might be the one faced with the choice Sam had made. And Dean would not accept that.

So he concentrated on Sam, on how to keep his little brother from falling apart and didn't acknowledge that the shaking in his hands had any connection to himself.

When Sam came out of the shower, Dean went in and by the time he got finished Sam was under the covers, facing the wall. Dean approached the beds and stopped, looking down at his brother.

"Scoot over," he said softly.

Sam did without any other acknowledgement that Dean had spoken.

It took Dean awhile to settle, and Sam kept his eyes closed, oddly comforted by the shift and shuffle of his brother on the mattress just a few of feet away. He could smell the shower and the familiar scent that was indefinably his brother. If he concentrated, Sam could imagine that it was any other of a hundred nights he had shared a bed with Dean during their childhood and even a few times over the last several months. If he focused, he could pretend away the blood and the gunshot and the numbness of the last hours. He could ignore the echo of the voice in his head begging him to kill her, the memory of trusting eyes as he pulled the trigger, the feel of cooling skin that had been so warm and vibrant just the night before.

Sam couldn't help the low sound of frustration and pain as he tried again to push thoughts away that seemed to be playing on an endless loop in his exhausted brain.

Dean moved uneasily next to him and Sam made himself still. Didn't say _sorry_ even though he wanted to, afraid to open the door to a conversation he wasn't ready to have right then.

Because along with the images of Madison and the throbbing hurt of what he'd done was the knowledge that this was what he'd asked of Dean.

And he couldn't _breathe_.

This gaping maw of guilt and regret and emptiness and _wishing_. Multiplied to whatever power of _brother_ and _best friend_ and _Dean_.

The sound that escaped him this time was a moan, and Sam brought his hand up to his chest, pressing at the ache there that he couldn't escape, didn't want to. Held it to himself, punishment justified. He felt the tears start down his cheeks again and was helpless to stop them.

"Sammy."

Dean's voice, low. A hand whispering over his head. Coming to rest, palm gentle on the nape of his neck. Cool pressure, steady.

Sam shook his head. Unable to put words to the feelings that threatened to undo him.

"OK."

For a minute, Sam thought Dean might pull away, withdraw the connection. But he didn't.

"OK," Dean said again, thumb starting to move gently back and forth at the base of Sam's skull. "It'll be OK."

xxxx

When Dean woke there was sunlight streaming around the edges of the heavy curtains at the window. He lay still on the bed, cheek pressed against rough sheets.

Dean hadn't been sure either of them would sleep last night. But total exhaustion and what Dean suspected might be the onset of a deep depression seemed to have been just the sleep-aid they both needed.

Dean lifted his hand back to the mattress. His fingers had been just brushing the carpet from where he was hanging off the side of the bed. He could feel the press of Sam's elbow in the small of his back, the length of a forearm up his back, fingers curled against his shoulder blade. Not an uncommon position for him to find himself in when he slept with his brother. But this morning there was no instinctive shove back at Sam's inert bulk.

It had always been this way. More times than not when they shared a bed, the two of them ended up much like they were now – Dean pushed to the edge, Sam in his space, arms around each other. Depending on who woke up first, retaliation for the inadvertent touching ranged from being shoved onto the floor to a glass of water dumped over the head.

This morning Dean let the comfort of Sam's presence be. Turning his head, he studied his brother. Even unconscious, Sam seemed to feel the weight of the day before. His face was drawn, forehead creased, and Dean felt the hand that Sam had tangled in his t-shirt tighten into a fist at Dean's movement. Clutching at him.

Dean's throat closed up, and he cleared it quietly.

"'s OK, Sammy."

Sam made a funny noise in his throat, fingers twitching again.

Dean held himself still, staying within his brother's grasp, and Sam settled.

Lying there, waiting, Dean tried to think through their options. Where did they go from here? Thrumming just under the surface Dean had to acknowledge the urgency of _runrunrun_. Knew that they'd need to drop out of sight for awhile, see how things went.

And Dean knew where he wanted to go to ground. Knew where the _run_ was directing him.

But.

As much as he longed for that, Dean couldn't figure how to do it and still be able to maintain some feeling of being in control. He didn't want to show up on their doorstep, broken _again_, needing to be healed. He should be able to take care of this, to take care of Sam.

And he couldn't imagine being around Luke and Jo and _not_ having the truth come spilling out of his brother… or him for that matter. And he couldn't imagine their reaction to Sam having shot a girl in cold blood, to both of them hiding her death, burning the body, sheets, evidence. Whatever the reasoning, the justification, there was something about this that seemed too far outside of anything they could expect Jo and Luke to deal with.

And if someone came after them…

Sam moved restlessly, letting go of Dean's shirt, turning over and away.

Dean took the opportunity to slip out of bed. He got dressed quickly and left, pulling the door shut behind him without a sound.

When he returned with coffee, Sam was awake, though still in bed.

"Mornin'" Dean said, setting Sam's cup on the bedside table.

Sam scratched a hand through his hair, standing it up on end.

"Hey," he said, voice rough with sleep, angling himself into a sitting position and reaching for the coffee.

"You gonna be ready to hit the road soon? We can grab breakfast, keep on driving?"

Sam shrugged, nodding his understanding.

"Where?"

Dean sat on the edge of the other bed.

"L.A."

_End_


End file.
